


The Working Life

by Tangerine



Series: The Davis Age [2]
Category: Excalibur (Comic), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Homophobic Language, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-30
Updated: 2000-01-30
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: Micromax makes some decisions about his life.





	The Working Life

My story, if you will, started like any good English day. It was sunny, and the sky was clear, so it was actually like I wasn't in England. So fuck, I managed to lie the first sentence of my story. Sorry. At any rate, I was in a fabulous mood and knew my beautiful mood would last until I got off the bloody elevator.

"Scott, how are you doing this fine morning?" 

I looked up from my tea and newspaper, both tediously balanced in my left hand as my other hand wrestled with my keys. The pox on my existence sat in that chair, Jean Landon, who had decided to make me hers. As if the world already didn't have one Scott-Jean entity, this woman was trying to make another one, and it was over my dead body that was actually going to happen, but damn me and my dashing gentlemanly tendencies which were making it much harder than it needed to be. "Fine, Jean, fine, thank you. How are you today?"

She leaned over, her blouse too small for her chest, flashing cleavage. Wonderful. This is how I want to start everyday. A nice run in with my stalker. Marvellous, _bloody_ fucking marvellous. "I've never felt better, Scott. Is that a new shirt?"

Lord almighty. "Yeah, my mum bought it for me."

"You look very sexy." She flashed me a grin then licked her lips, watching me with those beady, little demon eyes. I'm too nice a person, I realised that very quickly after meeting her, but hey, what can I do? "Sid will be in later today. He says you're doing the hourly news."

"Brilliant," I mumbled, stabbing my doorknob with my blasted keys. I nodded to Clarence, the night guy, as he tossed me a shake of his head. I sat in my chair, flipping nonchalantly through the news for the not-so-British morning. Murder, rape, murder, murder, advertisement, murder, murder, oh, telephone rates are soaring. Marvellous. "Clarence, you ever realise how screwed up this world is?"

Clarence looked up from his stack of compact disks, his long hair sitting greasily on his shoulders. A record collector with a lousy job, poor man. I was going to recommend they move him to days. I don't think he sees enough daylight. He almost glows. 

"All the time, Scotty, all the time. I swear, man, back in the day they had it good. Fairport Convention, Van Der Graaf Generator, Microdisney, I mean, where are they today, man, and why can't I find them? And what's this crud we have now? Ricky Martin? Britney Spears? Scotty, my ears hurt, and it's a damned crying shame."

I laughed and shook my head. Poor man, of course that's what he'd think. Poor, poor record-collecting man ...

"But yeah, Scotty, never been so afraid in my whole life," he muttered, shuffling his CDs before picking them up and locking them in his oak cupboard. "It's all yours, Mr. Right. I depressed them all. You get to cheer them up."

"Great, Clarence, thank you." 

I hate my job.

Clarence eyed me, scratchy his goatee absently. I regarded him as he watched me, wondering what he always thought when he stared at me in that spacey way he could stare. He spent more time studying me than I thought was healthy, but hey, if it cheered up that dismal life of his even a little bit, he was free to stare as much as he liked.

"Right," he said and left. 

Weirdo. I stood up, looked around lost then sat down again. In two minutes, when another one of Clarence's bizarre songs ended, Mr. Right would be aired in every English town. The French, the Germans, the Irish and the Scottish, they all had to suffer Mr. Right. It was so humiliating.

It had been great at the beginning. I actually enjoyed myself. Mr. Right, the enigmatic persona in the air, who made girls fawn and women leave their husbands. My bed was never empty, always full of succulent, hot blooded ... oh, I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be telling a story here, aren't I? 

I'm not Mr. Right. I'm Scott Wright, and even then, that's not exactly accurate. Sure, I'm Scott Wright, nerd-turned-stud, but I'm also Micromax, who, as it stands, blows goats. I suck monkey arse. There are not enough crude words in existence to describe just how bad a superhero I am. 

Take my word for it. 

"Scott, dead airwave, pay attention!" 

I snapped my attention back to the present. "Good day and good morning! This is Mr. right, setting out to bring a little ounce of pleasure into your lives. Yes, girls, I'm single, so boys watch out! Too all the sleepy people out there, open your eyes! This song's for you!"

As Marvin Gaye's ‘Sexual Healing' started playing, I leaned back and exhaled slowly. Nice move, smart guy, there's a fabulous way to lose your job then you can go back to sitting around in your pad all day, masturbating to old copies of Playboy. 

It's not a bad life.

And I didn't masturbate that often. Really.

Ah, bullocks, who I am kidding? My hand had more of a life than I did, but then, that's not the moral of my story, and now you know more about me than you cared to know. Cheers!

"Scott, you're a million miles away," Jean said, sitting on the edge of my desk and crossing her long legs. I gave her a look, and she sat on the chair instead, watching me load discs. "Scott?"

"What is it?" I snapped, glaring at her. I hate oblivious people. I hate people who refuse to get a clue. I hate those bloody dimwits that make my life more complicated than it needs to be. Jean was one of those people. The side effect of her existence was that I really, truly hated her.

"Do you need a massage?" She asked sweetly, coming up behind me and laying her fingers on my shoulders, rolling the flesh. Ah! I hate her! "You're so tense, Scott. Sid is a meanie to be making you work so hard."

I'd love that man if he would fire you. "It's not so bad. The hours are good. The pay is good. The benefits are good." But I want to be a _good_ superhero. "It's all good. Could you not do that please?"

"Oops! Sid always said I had strong fingers." She released the pressure and gently worked my muscles, and I sighed, wanting very much to bloody my head against the wall. Repeating. Until I was mindless, sort of like Jean. 

"Our four-play this morning comes from the delectable Ms. Valerie Wells. Well, Ms. Valerie, I hope the crooning of Depeche Mode bring you the rapture that you desire on this hot, sultry morning, so lay back, take off your clothes and enjoy life!"

"You're so sexy," Jean giggled, sitting back in the chair. I sat there, envisioning a thousands needles being stuck in my balls as an escape from the torture. She lifted her arms in the air, stretching she would claim if I called her on it, and thrust her breasts in my general direction. "Do you find it warm?"

"No," I replied, sifting through the news again. "Did you need something?"

She giggled and uncrossed her legs, and I blinked calmly and controlled, trying to erase the image from my eyes. It had worked in the movies, but now I felt completely creeped out having experienced it in person. It seemed my delusional groupie was without panties and without dignity. Any other man would have taken the harlot into the backroom and done her for all that she was worth, but I was a superhero. We don't do things like that, at least not when we're working and not when they're that blasted pathetic. 

"I need you."

That was it. I stood up, grabbing her by the arm and showed her the door, pointing to her desk. "You stay there. I stay in here. You and I, Jean, you and I are not going to happen. Never. Ever. Let me do my job before you get us both fired."

She frowned then turned away from me. "Fag."

Without defending my manhood, I went back to my desk and proceeded to waste the rest of my morning doing my job. At least it looked like Jean got the gist of what I had said to her because now she was fondling the mail carrier. 

Thank the lord. 

"Hey man."

I looked up and raised my eyebrow. "Clarence? What are you doing back here?"

Clarence sneered, the closest I had ever seen him to anger, and dropped his bags on the floor. "Dynamite Dan, the afternoon idiot, is spending the next two days in the hospital. The dickhead sucked back a litre of chemical sludge before realising it wasn't his lunch. I'm working split shifts until they're sure he's not going to mutate into a horse."

Idiots, with the exception of Clarence, I'm surrounded by them. I began packing up my notes, realising I never actually did the news reports then deciding to claim I had never actually seen them. I could do it, too, make him believe.

Just like I'd made the entire country think Mr. Right is right for _you_!

"Scott, Clarence, meeting in the lunch room. Billy the Kid's going to cover you until we're done," Sid said, making his obligatory appearance of the day. He was a bordering obese man with foul breath but a good sense of business. "And Scott, if you ever forget the news again, you're fired."

Shit.

When we had all gathered in the lunchroom, all save for the stupid Dynamite Dan, Sid decided to make an announcement to ruin my day. I knew he didn't like me. I think I was too charming and sexy for his liking. 

"We've been bought."

We exchanged glances, Clarence and I, being the only ones intelligent enough to realise what this could possibly mean. The others, Jean especially, feigned concern without really understanding we were all in the position of being unemployed. 

"The Heath and Lager Corporation bought out the Brand Corporation this morning. If Scott had read the news, I wouldn't be looking at all these stupid faces. Needless to say, we're going to have some major changes happening around here. Instead of the evening slot that Romantic Rick performs, he's being moved to nights, and Clarence, you're the temp."

"Shit and fuck. I'm not happy," Clarence decided. 

"The evening slot is becoming a political discussion show." I had to cheer Sid for the sheer amount of unenthusiastic bitterness he fit in that short sentence. "Some American avenue, founded by some red neck Yankee group calling themselves the Friends of Humanity. Supposedly, this garbage is a huge hit overseas."

Friends of Humanity, Friends of Humanity, I sat there wondering why that phrase left a foul taste in my mouth. 

"That's an anti-mutant group," Clarence said. "My third cousin's a mutant! Like hell I'm going to sit around and listen like a damn sheep. Fuck this, man, I quit. Back to the record store I go, back to poverty and malnourishment, but at least I'll have my bloody dignity."

"You're not a mutant, are you?" Jean asked distastefully, and Clarence glared dryly at her, thinking those precious thoughts I think with every glance in her direction. "Because mutants are disgusting creatures. I saw a mutant once. He smelled bad and killed babies and ate his parents."

"Bullshit," Romantic Rick said, eyeing Jean with a dedication she would never see from me. He wanted in her pants and had hated me when he realised I was the chastity belt for which he didn't have the key. "Did you really?"

"Well, I heard about him anyway," Jean said with a shrug. "People need to know these things, to protect their children and pets. We're doing a good thing here. It's very good of us. We're saving lives."

"Can you get any stupider?" Clarence asked, shaking his head. "Those donkeys are no better than those racist bastards who think they're the supreme rules of us all or those murderers who think religion is an excuse to kill homosexuals. This is foul."

"Scott?"

I had remained quiet until Sid looked to me. I mean, what was I going to say? That I was a mutant, one of those vile beasts Jean had seen feasting on human flesh? Was I supposed to blurt out that damned secret I had held since I was twelve? Some superhero I was, I couldn't even admit that much.

"What?"

Sid looked at me. "What's your opinion?"

"I have no opinion," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. What would they do, what would they say, if they realised the six-foot-three, two hundred pound beauty with the full head of hair man sitting before them in reality had a receding hairline, skinny limbs and a pudgy belly? A little growth there, a little shrinkage here, it had only helped my appearance. What? You thought a diet of fast food and days of television would produce an Adonis? Like hell it would. I was an ugly bastard until I realised I wanted something more in my life than what I had.

Inside and out.

"I think Jean's right," Romantic Rick decided. "Mutants are the scum of the earth, and people have to understand that. The Americans already have it figured out, they're years ahead of us, and we're just sitting here, practically letting them contaminate us all." 

I stared out the window, looking down at the street below. The building I worked in was tall, a good twenty floors, but I was taller if I wanted to be. I had only realised it right in that moment. I had never thought about it before. 

"I quit," I said without thinking about what I was saying. "I quit."

"What is that, Mr Wright?" Sid said sharply, giving me that look which killed kittens, but I did not back down. I looked at him, strong and steady with my decision. Goddamn it, I would be a superhero if it killed me. "What did you say?"

"You hear me. I quit."

Mr. Jackson opened his mouth to chew me out and remind me of my contract, which could be broken because I wouldn't have signed it otherwise, but a loud screech and a resulting chorus of screams turned all eyes to the window.

A cleaning crew, hanging now by mere strings above the streets far below, were two steps too close to death. I walked to the window, noting with sadness that one person had already walked the steps then I raised my eyes to the other two as they held on, slipping inches closer to the end with every second that passed, and the emergency crews would never get there in time. 

With my heart in my chest, I picked up my chair and hurled the damned thing at the window, shattering the glass. In a move pure out of the movies, I hurled myself into the air and willed myself to grow. I caught the look of Clarence as I fell, noting the satisfied grin, then looked down, judging the best place to put my feet. 

"A jumper!"

I looked up then shook my head in self-pity, realising they meant me, but as my body began to stretch and my clothes began to rip, it became obvious to everyone I was not going to die. Quite the opposite actually, I was going to save lives.

By the time my feet rested on the pavement, I was a good twenty fives stories high, and contrary to popular belief I don't measure myself. I know when I'm large enough, thank you. I could feel the wind whip against me, trying to knock me down, but I merely reached over, careful of the cars around my ankles, and grabbed the persons in peril.

"My, aren't you a large man," the woman said, eyeing me with a relieved grin, "and so well formed. Well, if I wasn't so sure I was about to go into shock, I would get your number. You saved my life."

"Thank the lord! Thank the lord!" The man praised, holding only my index finger tightly, kissing it out of sheer gratitude. "And thank you, thank you! I have children at home, five of them, and a wife too ill to work. They would have died without me! Thank you! Thank you!"

And you know what? I felt good hearing his thanks, and I felt good hearing her thanks, and I just felt bloody good standing there in my briefs, made of unstable molecules of course, knowing that I was indeed a superhero. I was Micromax. 

Damn, I'm good. 

I brought them to the broken window, sliding my hand into the building careful of the glass, and Clarence helped them to the ground, patting my hand with a huge smile. "I knew you were Micromax! My third cousin's Colin McKay!"

"Kylun?" I asked stupidly, remembering my buddy and how I hadn't talked to the man in months. "Colin's your cousin! Imagine that! Do you have his number? He and I need to talk. I've decided to change careers. I'm going to be a superhero."

"You'll need a costume then, you exhibitionist!" Clarence laughed, shaking his head. I barely even noticed the mutant haters behind him and their baffled looks. "Consider his number yours! I'm sure he'd love to hear from you! Now, take me out of this place, superhero. The stink of hate is foul."

"It is at that, Clarence. It is at that."

So that's what I'm doing here now, on Scottish soil in an attempt to talk Kylun into joining my superhero team then we're going to find Nightcrawler to lead us. Last I heard, Excalibur is defunct, lack of membership and all that, and England will need a team if the Friends of Humanity are going to plant their feet here. Besides, I'm unemployed, and though my old lifestyle has its benefits, I'm Micromax, and I'm a superhero, and I can masturbate any old time. The world needs me. 

So Captain America ... eat your heart out!


End file.
